The Sharpshooter's Regret

The Sharpshooter's Regret

The sun was sinking behind the hills, casting long shadows across the plains as I stood there, dust swirling around my boots. The scent of horses, sweat, and the promise of rain hung heavy in the air. This was the life I knew—town after town, thrill after thrill. Crowds cheering, the sharp crack of my rifle splitting the evening quiet.

I was Jake Steele, and everyone knew my name. Men came from miles around to see me shoot, to see the impossible happen. I could split a playing card from a hundred paces, take the wings off a fly, fire the buttons off a man’s coat without nicking his skin. They came for the spectacle, but for me, it was all just... another day.

My brothers had their talents too. Lucas, with his whip, as fast and deadly as any bullet I could fire. Samuel, throwing knives with deadly accuracy, sometimes just inches from my head. And then there was Tom, defying gravity on horseback, a sight to behold in his own right. Together, we made one hell of a team. But I was always the star.

The crowds never saw it, but behind the scenes, there was a kind of weariness that came with being the best. You put on a show for the people, but when it was over, all you had left were the ghosts of your skill. No matter how fast you shot or how clean the hits, something about it felt hollow.

Lately, we’d been teamed up with some Native American warriors. We put on a ‘Cowboys and Indians’ show—nothing but a myth, a story for the crowd to eat up. But those men, they weren’t my enemies. They were part of the show, sure, but they were more than that. I respected them. I think they respected me too.

That night was supposed to be like any other. The final act, the one that always had the crowd holding its breath. I could feel the tension in the air, electric, like a storm about to break. My brothers stood by me as I raised my rifle, feeling the familiar weight in my hands, my fingers steady as ever. I took aim, and one by one, the targets dropped. Every shot perfect.

But then something went wrong.

I don’t know how or why it happened, but the last bullet hit the target and ricocheted. One moment I was staring down my sights, and the next... a little girl was lying on the ground, blood blooming on her dress, her wide blue eyes looking up at the sky.

Everything stopped.

I didn’t even hear the crowd, didn’t hear the mother scream, didn’t see the father rush to her side. All I could hear was the echo of the shot, the one that never should have gone wrong. My rifle slipped from my hands, hitting the dirt with a dull thud. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think.

I killed her.

I don’t know how long I stood there, but when I came to, the family was cradling their daughter, their grief filling the night air. The father’s eyes found mine, and the look he gave me... I’ll never forget it. Anger, sadness, something more than words can hold.

I walked to them. What could I say? What could I do? There was no taking it back. No apology that could fix this. So, I did the only thing I could. I emptied my pockets, my saddlebags—everything I had. Gold, silver, every damn trinket I’d collected in all my years on the road. I gave it all to them. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, knowing it wasn’t enough. It’d never be enough.

I kept fifty gold coins. Enough to get by. Then I turned to my brothers. The men I’d fought with, laughed with, lived my whole life with. “I’m done,” I said. The words felt heavy in my mouth, like lead. “I won’t shoot again—unless it’s to protect someone. I can’t.”

And that was it. I took my horse, my guns, and I rode off into the night. Left behind the cheers, the fame, the name I’d built for myself. Jake Steele, the sharpshooter, was dead. Now, I was just a man trying to live with what I’d done. And I swore to myself, as I rode into the darkness, that I’d never raise my rifle again for anything less than what was right.